As I enter Sturgis’s downtown, moments snapshot in my mind. A Marlboro man with a thick handlebar mustache holds a string lingerie-like dress to his lady’s petite frame with a nod of approval. The greasy fair-like smell mingles with tones of exhaust. The bare breasts, nipples covered with sequins.
I’ve landed on another planet and am forced to adapt on the fly. Jason’s long strides remain unchanged, so I bump and push through a steady stream of leather to avoid getting left behind.
Jason locates his friends, and after quick bro fist hugs, the group discuss their digs in Deadwood and the drive into Sturgis. Obviously, I’ve arrived with Jason as I stand directly behind him, but I am never acknowledged or introduced. To say I feel awkward is an understatement. Not knowing what else to do, I give up hope of an introduction and feign interest in what’s happening around me.
When everyone turns and walks, Jason tells me about the bar we’re going to. Minutes later, the eight of us are in line. With the men in the thick of discussion, I stand with the women. We exchange names, nothing more.
It’s not long until we’re at the front, about to be let in.
“What the fuck do you mean?” The voice’s intonation is threatening, and anyone in earshot silences and turns. I push to see a large man with a headset and a black t-shirt with “Security” in white lettering, shaking his head and saying something I can’t hear.
The angry voice, Jason’s friend, the bulldog-looking one with a black bandana around his forehead, black sunglasses over it, and a heavy leather jacket with cut-off sleeves, comes again. His tattoos and reddened skin pulse.
“That is fucking bullshit. And you know it,” his index finger points like a gun to the security guard’s head. Fear washes over me as I realize how stuck I am, as is everyone else watching nearby. The security guard isn’t escalated, merely shaking his head and saying something I can’t hear. Then that’s it; our group is walking, and I am, too, bringing up their tail.
Waiting in line at the next bar, I tap Jason on the shoulder, and he turns. “What happened back there?”
“Oh, it’s a bunch of bullshit. That guy knew it, too. Not being able to wear colors isn’t doing shit.” I rack my brain for the word “colors” and come up empty-handed.
Showing how clueless I am almost stops me, but needing to know how in danger I am, I push on. “What are colors?” I ask.
“Colors are the names of the club you belong to, they’re written on patches on our jackets.”
Not getting all the information I’m looking for, I try another way, “Yeah, but why wouldn’t he let us in?”
“He’s fucked. That security guard had something out for Tommy. Just because of a shooting last year. It didn’t have anything to do with colors, but they’re so goddamn strict this year.”
“Did someone die?” I ask.
“No. But people do die. There’s a running tally each year, I think it’s up to ten.”
Ten people?! Are dead? My stomach drops, and my imagination is off like an Olympian in the 50-meter dash.
He continues, “People are stupid. Drinking all day then jumping on a 1000-lb machine, what do they think will happen?”
My runner man stops, “What? The deaths aren’t from people killing each other?”
He laughs, “Ha, no. Just being dumb.”
I feel dumb.
Later, back at camp, Jason gets something in his unzipped tent and then turns to me, “Put up your tent.”
“No. My car is fine. Better than fine, actually.”
“Just do it. I’ll pay.”
“What?! No way.”
“It’s nothing. Go on, get your tent.”
“You don’t–,” I try, but get talked over.
“Go.”
So I do. I find a spot on the left side of the grass, not far from Jason. The act of staking my tent and having my sleeping bag and pillow feels like a taste of home. After I’m done, I sit with the guys and chat.
“So what’s the plan, where y’all headed?” I’m excited about possibly a concert at The Chip or something fun.
Two men say, almost simultaneously, “To bed!”
Everyone laughs, but I’m disheartened and say, “But I thought this was Sturgis.”
“Well, hon, it is, but most of us are over 50 now and have slowed down quite a bit.”
The Mardi Gras/Cancun/Vegas go big or bust trip bubble in my mind bursts, and I look and see them for what they are, tired.
But the problem is, I’m not tired. I’m ready for fun.
“Well shit, you guys, I didn’t expect that. So is no one going with me?”
One by one, their heads shake, and they say, “Not me.” Jason is nudged by my biggest fan in a mustard shirt, “You go with her.” At that exact moment, I bat my eyes and say, “Pleeeeease.”
Jason mumbles something, shakes his head, and says, “Fine,” then adds quickly, “But not for long.”
That’s enough for me. “Yay,” I say, putting my hand up to high-five a couple of the other guys.
Going On 40 
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